


To Live a Legend

by misshallery



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, I'M SORRY THERE'S SO MANY CHARACTERS BUT I'M GOING FOR SCALE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misshallery/pseuds/misshallery
Summary: Everyone in Ylisse knows the old legend of Hoshido and Nohr.





	To Live a Legend

The palace of Ylisstol was not a last line of defence.

Its very foundations didn't crumble apart from several hundred close battles too many. Soldiers didn't collapse in the hallways, shaking and bloody, being tended to by a wavering number of clerics. Risen did not surround the place, approaching wave after wave in an unending torrent. Most importantly of all, when Owain followed his mother out onto the balcony of her chambers, he saw a thriving city, with people who were alive and well and able to actually shake off the effects of war.

He remembers distinctly when he and Laurent stood guard outside the palace one night. They hadn't slept properly in weeks after a particularly nasty wave of risen came from the horizon and threatened to batter the last soldiers in Ylisse. Owain's senses were dulled and his eyes felt heavy; so much so that he didn't notice the Risen wyvern cutting through the air towards their shared post until Laurent charged forward, aiming a wind spell at it with a desperate cry. The small hurricane pierced the still night air, and sent the mount and rider careering to the ground before Owain could fully unsheathe his sword. He stood shock still, frozen in place, while Laurent hurriedly retreated back to his position nearby, the darkness obscuring his expression.

It took longer than he would have liked for Owain to find it in himself to retreat back to his ally's side, but his eyes weren't on him anyway. He followed Laurent's line of vision until he too found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the wyvern, now truly dead and lying in an unceremonious heap not twenty feet away. They both knew it had to stay there. Any time spent ferrying bodies around in the no man's land was toying with death. But they both knew they would not be able to to watch the horizon without the corpse sitting in plain sight, a symbol of their brush with the end.

After what felt like the longest time, Owain forced himself to break their mutual silence. "Perhaps we can call that one... the spinning tornado death thrash?" he offered. He didn’t like how his voice came out high and wavering.

Laurent sighed listlessly, and Owain was sure that if the rim of his mage's hat didn't cast shadows over his eyes, he would see them being rolled. "That's quite enough, Owain." He turned back to the small and dwindling stack of supplies they had hoped would aid the night watchmen for a few days. "Make yourself useful." He started to reshuffle a stack of tomes, ordering them by might. Crouching down to help, Owain pretended not to notice how Laurent fumbled with his hands, still shaking.

 

Owain’s sword hand did not falter just because the war was over. Instead, he became increasingly restless, sparring with one of the other future children each day. Unsurprisingly, almost every single one of them kept to a spontaneously strict schedule of practice. They had been brought up fighting, they had spent their lives up to then fighting, and it only made sense for them to go to the grave still fighting. But there was no place for war in the newly peaceful land of Ylisse, and Owain slowly came to the realisation that if he did not change his mindset drastically, there would be no place for him either.

The thought of ever-lingering thought of leaving  _again_  went through his mind, as it did most days when he headed for the barracks.

The place was newly decorated. Severa had grumbled something about it being "just another room in the palace" now, but Owain quite enjoyed extravagance. The changes had materialised one by one: the creaky floorboards polished until they shone. The flickering candles were ripped out and chandeliers fitted. An exquisitely carved wooden table took the place of the old plank of wood balanced on a particularly big stone. And today an enormous tapestry had been hung up, outshining the dull stone of the wall it lay on. So magnificent it gave Owain pause.

A huge starry sky filled the scene, bearing witness to a gathering of people. Two groups stood facing each other, one dressed in dark tones and one in light. Their resemblances suggested they were two families. The delicate needlework made all their faces solemn, as if they were brought together for some important purpose. In the centre was a woman, dressed all in white and blue, with some kind of trident-like spear that she raised high above her head to the heavens. Owain reached out to trace it with a finger.

"The miraculous spear of the skies," he murmured. "The trident of jet black and bright white. The starry lance of greatness…" 

"The Blessed Lance," the voice of his mother corrected chirpily. Sure enough, Lissa was behind him, watching with interest. "But of course, the Queen of Valla's real weapon was her song." 

"To do battle with a voice?" Owain's blood began to rush. "What a miraculous idea! What a frightening warrior she must have been!"

“Haven’t you heard that one?” asked Lissa. Another new addition were the armchairs. The barracks were beginning to look like a sitting room. Lissa flopped into one with an astounding lack of grace for a princess. “Emm used to tell it to Chrom and I when we were young.”

Owain looked up eagerly. “I will, if it’s truly a tale befitting of legends! What’s it about? A band of righteous heroes? A war between almighty kingdoms of equal military strength and moralistic rigour? Or perhaps a mighty dragon, with scales as scaly as- “

“All of those things, in fact!” giggled Lissa, cutting him off before he could spin a new tale all his own. “A war between two kingdoms, spurred on by a powerful dragon, able to control them all.”

Owain’s eyes nearly popped out of his head from excitement. “Hark! A chosen warrior should have led them! One of sacred blood, with an all-powerful sword to guide him!”

"And he did! The great Prince Corrin." Lissa paused, recalling the story. "But some people tell the story of a _Princess_ Corrin instead. I think I like that one better. But Prince or Princess, they coordinated the kingdoms to save their world and everyone in it. Just like we did here!”

“But not in my world.” Where has that thought come from? And why had Owain said it out loud? It made his mother’s face fall and his own mood darken, because it was true. He had fought all his life, and yet his true home was a place where no flowers grew and the sun never shone and most people were long dead.

“You helped save us here,” replied Lissa, in the softest voice he had ever heard from her. “I want you to know this is your home too. You fought to protect it.”

Owain's fingers brushed over his sword hilt. “Fighting is all I’ve ever done.” He caught her gaze head on. “I cherish being a glorious hero. But it’s all I know how to do.”

The optimistic reply did pass Lissa’s mind. She could tell him that he could learn to enjoy living in peace, take up new causes, spend time with other people. It could all happen one day, if he would only set down his sword and _stay_. But all she could bring herself to say in that moment was a resigned truth: “I know, Owain. Right now, I know.”


End file.
